


Tradition

by ElDiablito_SF



Series: Snippets in Time [9]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:03:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before Porthos is to be married, our friends gather for a feast.  As certain people become more drunk, Porthos decides to have some traditional fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tradition

**Author's Note:**

>  Psst, hey, [](http://cecilia-weasley.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://cecilia-weasley.livejournal.com/) **cecilia_weasley**  !  A little birdie tells me it's your birthday in a few DAYS and, well, I'm such a giver!  Don't say I never gave you anything!  Please enjoy your early birthday Porthos.   (Sorry it's early, but I may not be able to post it later!)

The feast that Athos organized the night prior to Porthos’s wedding was everything one would have expected from the host and the guest of honor: the food was copious and exquisite, with every representative from the animal kingdom being proudly stuffed and splayed out for all to enjoy, and the wine flowed freely, with Grimaud, in the role of the silent Ganymede, replenishing everyone’s cup before they even knew it was empty.

When it got to be that time of the night when Aramis usually excused himself under some allegorical pretext or other, Porthos embraced his comrade and let him leave without a trace of his usual raillery. Then, turning to Athos, he drunkenly inquired, “Well, and what shall your excuse be tonight, my friend?”

Athos snickered and gave Porthos an enigmatic smile.

“I… have to go home and beat Grimaud?”

“That you do,” Porthos confirmed, toasting his friend. “He’s done a terrible job tonight – I should be far drunker than I am.”

“Perhaps,” d’Artagnan spoke up from the table, while angrily twirling his mustache, “you would have been drunker if Athos had provided less food.”

“That is a great point, d’Artagnan,” Porthos let out a spurt of laughter. “In that case, perhaps Athos should go home and beat himself?”

“It all amounts to my departure,” Athos warmly embraced Porthos, who was still laughing complacently at his latest _bon mot_. “Good night, d’Artagnan,” he turned towards their young friend, grasped his hand, and whispered to him, “The bill is taken care of, so do as you please.” With these words, Athos disappeared from the tavern, followed by his shadow of Grimaud.

“Do as I please,” d’Artagnan squeezed through his teeth and let his head drop to the wooden table with a loud thump. He let out a protracted groan.

“D’Artagnan, your despondency at my impending nuptials is touching, but a bit over the top, don’t you think?” Porthos smirked.

“But you’re leaving me,” the young man practically whined, looking up from the table. “What am I going to do with you gone?”

“I’m not leaving you _alone_. Athos and Aramis will still be here.”

D’Artagnan shot his friend an impetuous look.

“Yes, they will. And _togethe_ _r_. No use to me.”

“As much use to you as they ever were,” Porthos pushed another cup of wine towards his moping friend. “You need to make with more drinking and less pining. Haven’t you learned from Athos the fine art of drinking and suffering in silence?”

“I have not noticed him to be suffering much lately,” d’Artagnan snapped and emptied the proffered glass of wine.

“D’Artagnan, take an older and wiser friend’s advice,” Porthos began, lifting his finger in quite the pedagogic fashion. D’Artagnan looked around, as if to find to whom Porthos could have been referring. “Hah hah, you little scoundrel,” Porthos continued, noticing the ridicule. “Where was I? Ah, yes. Get over it.”

“Get over _what_?”

 _“It_. This _thing_ that you have, gnawing at your insides. I believe there is a name for it.” Porthos lifted his eyes towards the ceiling, as if searching his memory. “Ah yes, I remember. _Jealousy_.”

“I’m not jealous!” d’Artagnan protested.

“Isn’t there some kind of a tradition where you’re not supposed to lie to the groom the night before his wedding?”

“Not that I’m aware of…”

“There should be…” Porthos moved his chair closer to d’Artagnan. “If you’re done drinking here, I think you and I should go for a walk.”

“Fine, but I’m not jealous,” d’Artagnan declared, rising up too suddenly from behind the table, and nearly falling over on top of Porthos. Porthos laughed again, and putting his arm around his companion for support, walked him, or rather, practically carried him, out of the tavern. The crisp night air hit d’Artagnan like a fresh insult across the face, and he turned around and veered towards his friend. “Maybe I’m a _little_ jealous. Maybe I do think sometimes that the only reason Aramis has his sharp talons in him is just because he got there first!”

“Interesting, because from where I stand,” Porthos tried to suppress laughter for fear of offending his friend, “it’s a bit difficult to tell whose talons are sharper and whose flesh they’re sinking into.”

“Athos doesn’t _have_ talons!”

“What you’ve got is a case of hero-worship. And Aramis is a very beautiful man.”

“Gee, _thanks_ , Porthos!”

“All I’m saying is that Athos is no saint. You need to stop looking at him through this rose-tinted glass you’ve got across your eyes. Even Aramis doesn’t see him like that.”

“Ugh! Stop saying his name!”

“Whose name, you little fool?”

“Aramis! Gah!”

“All right, you just need to simmer down, boy!” Porthos took d’Artagnan’s collar in a firm grip and brought their faces closer. “I meant what I said. Get over it.” With these words, Porthos slammed the younger man against the wall, and pressed his own mouth against his lips. Porthos was sure that his initial intention was just to shut the Gascon up, but he had no idea why he decided to go about it in such a peculiar fashion. But the situation was as it was, and so he decided not to question the prompting of his own body and to go with it. The kiss deepened and became more violent, as Porthos had his friend bodily trapped against the cold stones of the alley wall.

“What the _hell_ , Porthos?” d’Artagnan finally exclaimed coming up for air.

“Aramis is a beautiful man, but you’re pretty cute yourself?”

“Don’t mock me!”

“I believe it’s traditional for the groom to mock his friends on the night before his wedding,” Porthos asserted.

“No. It isn’t.”

“It should be. Come here, boy, let me mock you.” And Porthos pulled d’Artagnan into another lusty kiss. Allowing himself to savor the unexpected welcoming response and the lingering taste of wine on his friend’s lips, Porthos surfaced again, grinning complacently.  

“Ugh! Wipe that smug expression off your face!” D’Artagnan gave his friend a pathetic little push, his own confusion betrayed by his lack of strength.

“Why don’t you wipe it off _for_ me?”

“All right… I am now questioning which one of us had more to drink,” d’Artagnan almost stammered, shaking his head.

“Come in for a night cap,” Porthos motioned with his hand in the general direction of his house.

“What for?” the younger man asked, looking at his friend askance from under his eyelashes.

“Talk?”

“Porthos…”

“You know… about friend stuff.”

“I… um…”

“It will be educational,” the other said, undeterred. “I promise.” And he began to move towards his dwelling with the certainty of a man who knew he would be followed. A few moments later, he heard the Gascon’s shuffling step behind him and grinned to himself again.

When they reached the top of the landing before Porthos’s apartment, d’Artagnan found himself halted by renewed hesitatation, but the weight of his friend’s frame had gently forced him through the door without any further delay. Inside the empty abode, the young musketeer felt hot lips on the back of his neck and a small chuckle. It made his hair rise on end a bit with both rage and anticipation.

“Think of it this way,” Porthos whispered, wrapping his arms around d’Artagnan’s slender torso, “If you ever get the chance to do it… at least you’ll know what to do.”

“I know what to do!” the young man protested, peevishly, trying abortively to twist away, but only ending up face to face with his more powerful friend.

“Show me,” Porthos suggested, amicably, and pulled d’Artagnan into another slow kiss.  

At some point, d’Artagnan realized that his feet were no longer touching the floor and that he was being led, nay, _transported_ into the bedroom. He was unceremoniously plopped on top of the bed and pinned down by his friend’s drunken nuzzling, while the latter was clumsily tugging at various parts of his attire, attempting to disrobe him. D’Artagnan obligingly raised his hips, to help his friend out, ending up grinding his straining erection against its mirror image trapped inside Porthos’s trousers, and causing both of the men to grunt in unison. Porthos chuckled again and gave d’Artagnan another smug smirk, tossing his trousers on the floor at the foot of the bed.

“I believe,” Porthos gasped, hastily undoing his own trousers, “you will not argue that at least this part of the night is traditional?”

“Whatever gets you to the church tomorrow.”

“Sailor,” Porthos said, assuming a very serious expression, his face hovering a mere inch above that of d’Artagnan, “Prepare to have your ship boarded.”

“Please,” d’Artagnan let out, breathlessly, “Please… let that be the last thing out of your mouth tonight.”

Neither man said another word until the matins sounded from the bells of the Cathedral.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like all the stories in this series, this was written out of chronological order, and placed back in book order for the uploads.


End file.
